All Is Calm In 221B
by x.Aneo.x
Summary: John is shifting through his things went he comes across something that brings back a rush of memories. A little angsty, but happy ending. Can be Johnlock, but read normally too :) Better than I make it out to be


All was calm at 221B Baker Street (for once). Sherlock and John had once again, solved another abnormal and bizarre case (let's just say it involved a head of lettuce, three smart thugs and a sapphire the size of a duckling) and the pair had a night off. Sherlock was in such a good mood (and so pleased with himself) that he even offered to go out and buy Chinese food in celebration. And John was smart enough not to turn down Sherlock doing him a favour for once.

While John waited for Sherlock to return with the egg rolls and dumplings, he decided to shift through some of the boxes he still had left to unpack. He laughed at his lack of organization in 221B. When he first moved it, he really didn't have a chance to sit down and put things away. It was more like ripping through boxes to find what he needed. Funny how these things tend to slip your mind when you're distracted. Now that he finally had some down time, he figured he might as well sort through the remainder of his belongs.

'I'm clearly not going any where soon,' he thought to himself as he spotted the remaining boxes. His room was like any other middle-aged bachelor. Plain red bedspread, a dark cherry wood wardrobe and matching desk, books scattered about (most Sherlock's, mind you) and a couple of shelves that were mostly empty and void of his belongings. A mirror on the wall and a jacket hung on the back of his door. His cane, which he stopped using a few months into living with Sherlock, collected dust in a corner. He never really thought about it before but he only stopped using it because he would leave it everywhere and it slowed him down when Sherlock took off randomly. John glanced at the stick, reached to pick it up to move it, but just shook his head and reach for the box next to it.

He dropped the first box on his bed and opened it up. He started to unpack the random knickknacks on the shelves, when something metal dropped out of the box and fell under the bed. John sighed irritably and slowly kneeled down to get it.

"Where are you, bloody bastard," John swore under his breath. Just because he stopped using his cane, didn't mean his leg didn't hurt from time to time. Especially chasing after that dog with the sapphire sub today. He finally found the little object and picked it up. He leaned back on his heels and peered at the object in his hand.  
"Ah. So that's where I put it," he said to himself. He let out a half laugh and sat on the bed. "I thought I lost you." In his hand was a pair of dog tags. Well, more importantly, they were his dog tags.

He stared at the pieces of flattened metal in his hand. They were cold and smooth, even if they were scratched up a bit. His name and various bits of identification were still quite visible on the tags, even if the tag itself was in rough shape.

'I suppose that was the point,' he thought. 'To make sure it was visible at all costs.' He clutched his tags tightly in his hand and closed his eyes.

_Bombs exploding overhead made him practically deaf to the shouts coming from his commander. He watched his commander's mouth move, but it was almost impossible to tell what he was saying. His hand signals were at least understandable. The weight of the medical equipment on John's back was starting to cause him to go numb. They've been travelling for hours and John knew they had farther to go, but his body was starting to wear down. He panted and account of his fellow soldiers. He had to patch up Evens a while back- a bit of concrete hit the poor kid smack in the forehead. Nothing too serious- no concussion, but it took off a fair bit of his skin and John was almost sure that would be a scar once it healed. The poor kid was pale as snow and shaking to boot, but Jon knew it was from nerves rather than his injury. Evans, Daemon Evans was only 19 years old. John and him got talking a few days ago. His entire family had been army soldiers and it was expected of Daemon to be just liked them. The poor kid wasn't really army material, but he was strong and fast. John knew he could make it, even if Evans didn't. John glanced up at his bandages- they were soaked with blood. John was itching to change them, but he knew that they couldn't. Not just yet. They had to get somewhere safe first. A particularly loud explosion made them all jump out of their skins and brought John back to the current situation. _

"_Let's move out!" his commander yelled loudly. They all crouched and starting making their way across the street. The buildings were in ruins and the town was abandoned, except for the little toy soldiers that littered each gutter and rubble pile. The air was thick with gunpowder and sweat; blood only reached his nose when a soft breeze came by. John could taste the sand and dirt in his mouth- who would he have to kill to get some mouthwash. His walked past his commander, right when he shouted_

"_EVANS! EVANS MOVE!" John stood up and whipped around. There was Evans, kneeling on the ground, coughing up a lung. "TAKE COVRE EVANS!" John glanced up- rival soldiers were taking aim from behind a barricade made of cars and park benches. John didn't think- he didn't have time to think. John jumped out. The sound of shooting. Aching all over his body. Screaming turning into whispers._

"JOHN, I'M BACK!" John nearly jumped out of his skin, eyes flashing open. His heart was pounding and pupils dilated. His eyes flickered around- he was in his room. The box on the bed was now on the ground, his stuff everywhere. John realized he was panting and tried to slow his breathing.

'It's just Sherlock,' he thought to himself soothingly. 'It's Sherlock Holmes, my flat mate at 221 B Baker Street in London. I'm sitting in my room-'

"John? I heard something fall over, I'm coming in,' Sherlock shouted from the other side of the closed door. Slowly the door opened and Sherlock stared at John. His normally pale skin was tinted pink from the cold outside and he was still wearing his coat, boots and scarf. His grey-green eyes narrowed and scanned John. John cleared his throat and stood up.

"Uh, yeah," John muttered. "Knocked over the bloody box when unpacking." He motioned to it with his foot, but was too stiff to bend down and pick it up. His entire body ached and he was still a bit shaken.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock said, opening the door a bit more, stepping fully inside.

"Nothing," John said quickly. "Nothing's wrong. I'm fine-"

"Your pupils are dilated, your breathing is ragged, your tremor is back in your hand, you're avoiding eye contact because you don't want to look at anyone due to your emotional instability and you're standing so ridged because something from your past is making you call to attention in the face of terror. You make a horrible liar John, don't try and fool me," Sherlock said coolly. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong Sherlock, I'm fine," John said in a flatter tone, clearly not amused or in the mood to listen to Sherlock's reasons of why he was a bad liar. John knew he was a bad liar anyways, but hearing Sherlock say why wasn't really going to help right now.

"Then why are you tense?" Sherlock asked. '_You stupid moron_,' John wanted to scream '_I'm fine! Just leave me alone!_' When John didn't respond, Sherlock nodded to his hand.

"What's in your hand?"

John glanced down at his hand to see that he was clenching his fist so hard that his knuckles had all turned white. John immediately let go and let the pair of dog tags drop to the hardwood floor. His knuckles cracked and he flinched at the sudden release of tension in his fist and forearm. Sherlock, quick as a fox, scooped down and picked up the necklace.

"Military identification tags," Sherlock said. He stood up and flipped them over. His eyebrows raised and he glanced at John. "**Your** military identification tags."

"Yeah," John grunted. "Just unpacking and getting rid of a few things." John stared at the tags in Sherlock's hand and waved them away. "Just put them on the shelf or something. What's for dinner?" John tried to move past Sherlock, but Sherlock's enclosed hand was held out in his way.

"The point of military identification tags was to identify those who work for the military. You were apart of the military therefore-"

"People have them so they can identify the body incase the soldier dies and it too mutilated for even their own mother to say who they were," John snapped back. Sherlock dropped his hand to his side. John didn't want to glance up at Sherlock, but he did. He had to make a point. "They are for the dead. I don't want them. Either keep them yourself or toss them." John carefully studied Sherlock's reaction. He thought Sherlock might try to reason with him, get him to wear them again, maybe even put them on display, but all John could see was sadness. 'Emotion. Huh that's rare,' John thought to himself, albeit it was a hollow thought. Sherlock's eyes were just… sad. He was feeling sad for John, pity for the soldier who got shot. They stared at each other, and with the stare Sherlock was trying to say everything he couldn't- show his concern in the only way he knew how.

'I'm sorry that you are broken.'

'I'm here for you John.'

'Nothing bad is going to happen again.'

John broke eye contact and started shuffling towards the kitchen.

"What's for dinner?" John asked again, refusing to look back at his flat mate. "Got beef dumplings?"

"No, they were all out. I got you chicken instead, thought you'd like it better," Sherlock replied in a monotonous voice from John's room.

"Perfect," John said. Actually, he didn't like chicken dumplings, but he wasn't in a mood to argue. He just wanted to eat dinner and go to sleep. John hobbled into the kitchen, still feeling quite stiff. He saw the take out boxes on the counter, next to the various chemicals John had told Sherlock ten thousand times to move. Again, not in a mood to fight, John simply started clearing a space on the table. "You coming Sherlock?" John called after a minute.

"…I'm just going to change. Be there in a moment." Sherlock called back. John heard the shuffling of feet then a door click shut.

Well, Sherlock was right of course. John _was _in the mood for chicken dumplings. _'Screw him_,' John thought to himself, digging in. He managed to clear enough space for their respective dinner and already started eating.

"Come on, Sherlock. It's gunna get cold," John shouted with a mouthful of egg roll.

"I'm right here, no need to shout." Sherlock said behind him. John glanced over and nearly dropped his fork.

Sherlock was wearing his normal lounge clothes- a worn out grey t-shirt, and blue sweats with his housecoat. But what shocked John was that _Sherlock had_ _his dog tags around his neck. _John merely stared as Sherlock took the seat next to him and started eating like everything was normal in 221B.

"Um…" John started to say.

"You like the chicken dumplings, yes?" Sherlock interrupted.

"What?" John looked down at his food. "Oh yeah, they're great. But Sherlock… you're wearing my-"

"To toss something out with so much personal information on it is rather stupid of you John," Sherlock said calming, slicing a dumpling open. "Especially in our line of work. And I knew you were going to do it, even if I hide it away. So, the next logical thing was to wear it myself. That way, it is safe from our potential foes and from you." Sherlock took a bite and stared at John like he was some stupid third grader. All John could do was nod and finish eating his egg roll.

The rest of dinner was normal, light conversation dealing with today's solved case, wondering if Sherlock's brother Mycroft was eating cake as they had their supper and made guesses on if Anderson and Donovan were still sleeping together. But John couldn't help but keep glancing at his dog tags when the lightly clattered together. Sherlock was acting like it was no big deal, but John felt some how moved by this. He just couldn't figure out why. After dinner was done, John stared clearing the table and Sherlock wandered off to the living room. John sighed _'Guess some things will never change, like Sherlock not doing dishes,'_ he thought. As he finished cleaning up, violin music filled the air. John slowly finished his work, happy to listen to Sherlock playing his violin. On some nights, he wanted to kill Sherlock for playing so loudly. When Sherlock was thinking, or on a case, the music was loud and furious but this music was soft. It was gentle and calm, fitting the mood of the apartment.

John finished washing the dishes and limped over to the living room. Sherlock was facing the window, playing for an invisible audience in the street. John sat down in his armchair and watched Sherlock play. His eyes were closed in concentration, but his face was otherwise relaxed. John watched as he rocked back and forth, nimble fingers moving the bow in quick fluid movements across the strings, making harmonious notes flow into the air. The streetlight's light bounced off John/Sherlock's dog tags and John began to wonder why he still wore them. Sherlock may be a great detective, but John knew when he was lying too.

'_There has to be another reason,' _John thought to himself. _'It's got to be right in front of me…' _He contemplated it for a few more moments, letting the music focus his thoughts. He thought back to what they meant to him and what he said… then. It made sense. John could help but break out into a small smile and he stared back up at the world's only consulting detective. Sherlock kept them because he thought it was a gift. A gift from his friend John- and not to be rude, he took it and decided to wear it rather than to throw it away. _'Oh Sherlock,' _John laughed in his head. _'You're so human.' _ John sat back, closed his eyes, and listened to his friend play the violin. And every once in a while, the soft clinking of metal against metal could ring throughout the apartment.

All was calm at 221B Baker Street.

x.x.x.x.x.

Yeah. So. I was watching Sherlock and getting real excited for the third season (So far away~) and then this happened. It's a little angsty, but I think it's quite sweet all in all.  
A bit of Johnlock support here, but can be read as is. :)

Lots of love,

Aneo


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